


flightless bird

by uppityminx



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Other, POV Female Character, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8823148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uppityminx/pseuds/uppityminx
Summary: She knows it’s  juvenile, but she isn’t awfully familiar with the part of her heart that he inhabits. But like all smart creatures in a new environment, she adapts. She learns. [An evolution of Tina Goldstein over a year or so; companion piece to 'flicker from view.']





	

He comes back nearly a year after leaving the first time.

With the exception of his pants (“My father told me that ‘even beast-chasing Scamanders needed to be wearing properly tailored clothing.’”),  a faded mark on his face  (“A particularly nasty red cap I ran into in Dorset.”), and a shorter, but equally ragged haircut (“Again, my father.”)  he looked identical to when she’d seen him last. Suitcase and all.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to bring that back to the city, Mr. Scamander,” she’d teased him.

A sheepish half-smile on his face, he’d flicked open the case - new locks, she’d noticed - to show her a pair of pajamas, set of fresh clothes, a pair of glasses, and a tiny black journal. “No Section 3A here, Ms. Goldstein,” he’d murmured evasively (although a tiny snarl she heard later, followed by Newt giving the case a firm kick, told her otherwise).

Oh, and the beautiful little red book he’d presented to her. That was new, too.

“ _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_?” she’d read aloud, dumbfounded. “Isn’t that… um….”

Newt had turned pink, coughing slightly as he inspected the space between her shoulder and neck. “W-well, I was q-quite inspired by what you said, that day. It was especially, er, _accurate_ , I s’pose.”

She tried not to show how pleased she was - although her cheeks hurt from trying not to grin - and took him to Kowalski’s to celebrate. Newt’s expression alone as he saw the erumpent pastries - and subsequently ate one with the utmost care - was enough for Tina to realize, at the price of her own embarrassment, that waiting nearly a year had been worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

His visits are sporadic, but frequent.

He’s still doing field work, eagerly seeking out every corner of the world (thanks to his book residuals and generous Ministry funding) but he’ll show up nervously at the foot of the brownstone (most likely when she doesn’t expect it) more and more, often with a tiny souvenir from wherever he just explored. Face tanned and hair turned golden, he’ll put a delicate wood carving of a African queen on the kitchen table (enchanted to dance), simultaneously inhaling one of Queenie’s dishes while describing the injured family of diricawls he’d found, now in magical reservations. Two months later, he’ll show up at her office in MACUSA (still unable to look her quite in the eye for very long) with an old Chinese abacus and burns on his hands, fielding her questions about Chimeras as they take a walk during her lunch break.

“We need to find a way to keep track of them,” he says gravely of werewolves later that month, fresh off a trip from Canada. They’re sitting in her favorite coffee shop and despite the serious topic, she’s trying to hide a smile as she recalls his sour-faced reaction to his first cappuccino a short ten minutes ago. “Merlin knows how awful I feel for them, in their state. But they’re attacking Muggles left and right, often without any consequences.”

“Sounds like a job for the Ministry,” she replies pensively, her brows bunching in thought. “Don’t you have connections?”

“I tried, but there isn’t a proper division for handling it.”

This isn’t at all her job - let alone her responsibility - but she is awed by his passion and frustration and offers, “Let me look into it. I know the MACUSA liaison to the Ministry well. Maybe I can get a word in to the higher-ups.”

He looks at her the same way he did at the docks all those many months ago, wide-eyed and bewildered and if she’d handed him the world, and she feels herself growing hot under collared shirt. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do much,” she continues on hurriedly, attempting fill the sudden silence. “But I’m in Madame Picquery’s good graces now, and I-”

She stops short as he reaches out and places his hand over hers, warm to her cold. “Thank you, Tina,” he says softly (right in the eye), and she is too warm and surprised and _happy_ to realize how scared she is, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Tina likes to show him around the city in her rare free time. She’d never had a friend to show off her hometown to before, and his reactions to everything from the Met (“How wonderful...  to know of the beauty humans can create.”) to her favorite hot dog stand (“So I eat it  like… this?”) make her look at the city she’s lived in her whole life in a new light.

“I can’t believe you prefer the ketchup to mustard,” she says, shaking her head in mock disbelief as they walk through Central Park, wiping a smudge of her preferred condiment off her own face. “It doesn’t seem right, in New York.”

“The English will put a tomato on any sort of food,” he responds brightly, something akin to a fond exasperation towards his native country in his voice. “Ketchup is the closest thing I’ve seen to one since I’ve been here.”

This gives Tina pause. He’s been in New York a week now, the longest he’s ever been. She decides to investigate further. “Speaking of,” she starts slowly, fiddling with her worn jacket sleeve. “How much longer will you be here?” For some reason, it’s easier to ask than, _when are you leaving?_

“Are you getting tired of me?” he asks back, and the genuine uncertainty underlying his question causes something inside her to start.

“Of course not,” she responds quickly, far too quickly for her own comfort. Her tone hardens slightly: “I was just curious.”

He considers this. “Well, I’m taking  a longer trip to South America - the Amazon -  and was planning on leaving tomorrow, actually.”

“Oh.” Tina stares at her shoes, choosing to focus on their reliable slap against the pavement, rather than the sinking feeling in her gut.

She feels Newt glance towards her. “But,” he murmurs. “I-I could put it off for a day or two, perhaps. If - if you’ll have me.”

 _Always,_ she thinks. “I think I could make time,” she considers, struggling to fight off an uncomfortable thrill of delight. She sees him smile in the corner of her eye.

(Their hands brush as they continue to walk. Both pretend not to notice).

 

* * *

 

 

It was Tina’s birthday.

And she was furious - particularly, at a very specific English wizard with a very specific case full of very specific creatures, but whose name she did not want to think of now.

On the day before he’d left for the Amazon, he’d eaten dinner with them at the Goldstein brownstone a final time. After Tina had described an enrapturing story about the mob boss show-down she and her partner had dealt with that afternoon, Queenie had cleared her throat loudly to draw attention as they'd scarfed down chocolate cake for dessert.

“So, Newt,” she’d begun innocently - _too_ innocently, Tina had noted warily - “Did you know that Tini’s birthday is exactly a month from today?”

“I did not,” he’d mumbled awkwardly through a mouthful of dessert, unaware of the fierce glare Tina had shot her sister.

“Twenty-seven years old,” Queenie had said slowly, trying to hide a smile. “Y’know, it’s usually just the two of us celebrating, but we’d love to have ya this year.”

“Don’t be silly,” Tina had interjected crossly. “He’ll be in the middle of the rainforest then.”

Queenie had tactfully dropped the subject after that, but after, as Tina had walked him to the door, he had turned to her and murmured, “I’ll be there.”

“Where?”

“Here. On your birthday.”

“Don’t be silly,” she’d repeated faintly. “You’ll be in the Amazon.”

He had simply offered her a familiar half-smile. “I’ll be there,” he’d said quietly but firmly, gently touching her arm before heading into the street and Disapparating.

She hadn’t been made many promises before, but it sure sounded like one to her.

Thus, she was on edge all day, distracted throughout an investigation (“Graves already _told_ you that you didn’t have to work this case on your birthday, Tina,” her partner had hissed at her as she slammed head-first into yet another No-Maj on the street) and head snapping towards any sight of peacock blue or auburn-gold. She almost expected him to be there when she returned home, a shy and bright grin on his face.

No self-proclaimed magizoologist in sight.

So despite the delicious dinner (roast, potatoes, and cinnamon-apple pie) and sweet presents gifted to her by Queenie (a black leather watch and a copy of _The Mystery of the Ghoul Train_ ) she crawls into bed at ten and lets herself stew for a while. It is a bitter, silly disappointment, and she vows that she will never again allow a man to interfere with her mind and work - the two pillars of her life, balanced on the foundation of the devotion she has to her younger sister - and certainly, wouldn’t let Newt Sca-

Her thoughts are cut off by a set of arrhythmic knocks on the front door. Instincts lit and mind still whirling, she leaps out of bed, snatching her wand from the bedside table. She isn’t able to take a peek through the door, but the first sounds of shuffling, nervous feet tell her who it is.

With a quiet sigh and a traitorously thumping chest, she opens the door to find a very wet, dizzy, and apologetic-looking magizoologist. “Happy Birthday, Tina,” he says weakly, and passes her a damp brown package. He looks ridiculous, in a short-sleeved, muddied white shirt, long tan pants, and a mosquito net hanging off his shoulders like a jungle king’s cape, but her pulse jumps despite herself.

She automatically takes it but finds that all she can say is, “It’s past midnight.”

He blinks almost comically, before muttering to himself as he digs through his pockets, “I could’ve sworn I had a few hours left, I just checked-” He pulls out a rusty pocket watch, flipping it open, “-oh _Merlin’s beard_ , I was on California time-”

“It’s fine if you forgot, Newt,” she interrupts stiffly, trying desperately to ignore the crushed look on his face. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

She knows it’s  juvenile, but she isn’t awfully familiar with the part of her heart that he inhabits. Even at 27 years old, Porpentina Goldstein is in rogue terrain. Maybe this isn’t something that she can learn.

“It _is_ a big deal,” he rasps, emphatic and urgent. “I don’t break promises lightly, Tina. Especially to you.”

Something within her soars - _especially to her_ \- but quickly comes crashing down as she registers the hurt on his face. “I know,” she responds quietly, half-ashamed at her own behavior and half-wishing that he hadn’t shown up at all (that way, she could stay angry at him, and more importantly, herself).

They fall back into silence. “Well…” Newt starts awkwardly, scratching a bite on his neck. “I brought you something.”

“You did.” Before she can tear open the paper, a tiny, green needle pokes through the package. Suddenly, the package is in scraps, and a fully-formed, dark green bowtruckle rests in the palm of her hand.

“I thought I told you to wait until she opened it,” Newt gently scolds it. As Tina only stares at the bowtruckle, bewildered, he becomes visibly nervous again. “W-well, I thought, since you like Pickett so much… I picked her up in Scandinavia a little while ago, I’d been saving her for y-you… T-Tina?”

The bowtruckle scuttles from her palm to her shoulder, settling in the crook of her neck.

She still isn’t familiar with this - but like all smart creatures in a new environment, she adapts.

She learns.

Tina throws her arms around him, his shout of surprise only making her squeeze harder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, clutching the fabric of shirt and breathing in the scent of his collar (rain, cotton, sickly sweet banana). She feels his initially stunned figure relax against her, one hand cradling her head. “I’m so very glad.”

(She calls her bowtruckle ‘Fickle’. She and Pickett get along wonderfully).

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he shows up, several weeks earlier than he’d said, he simply passes her a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , once-steady hands now trembling.

 **“A NEW DARK AGE OF LESTRANGE?”** it questions her anxiously.

He lingers in the brownstone (barely haven spoken a word), the sun having long set. Near midnight, he sits at kitchen table with his head in his hands as Queenie, a comforting presence to his left, murmurs gently to him.

Tina stands at the sink, staring determinedly at her soapy, weathered hands. She is doing the dishes, the No-Maj way, which she tends to do in times of stress. She’s always been a hands-on girl - and of her hazy memories of her father, she recalls doing this with him, laughing as he piles handfuls of bubbles on her cheeks-

“It’s okay to love someone who caused you pain, Newt,” she hears Queenie say, sadly. “It’s human nature.”

A dish slips out of Tina’s hands, clattering loudly. Neither of them seem to notice.

“Human nature,” Newt repeats, listlessly. “Well, I’ve never known much about that.”

Perhaps Tina doesn’t, either.

A little while later, she leads him to the door.

He still looks completely wrecked, and while one part of her wants to draw him close, soothing him and trying to give him what he needs, the more dominant (and defensive) part lingers in the doorway, hugging herself as she inspects the floor (she’s still learning). “Well… travel safely,” she finishes quietly.

For some reason, this seems to make him even more agitated. “ _Merlin_ , Tina, I just-” his mouth opens and closes several times only to snap shut in frustration, unable to look at her.

Her heart is cracked and lodged in her throat so she only manages, “Send word if you need anything. Please.” She means it - she’s always been a Giver. At least, she’s tried to be.

Still anguished, he nods, eyes on the floor and she closes the door. The ache in her chest continues to make itself known, and she thinks it’s because she misses him.

It is only later that night, lying stone-still under the covers, eyes fixed on the ceiling, that she admits that she might just love him instead.

 

* * *

 

 

He sends her letters from England.

He’s back home for a while, in his family’s estate in the country. His brother’s first daughter has just been born and his mother simply wants him home.

 _Although I believe she wanted me to help with the hippogriffs more than anything else,_ he writes. _She still adores them, but she’s getting tired. They all are._

He signs them all with _Sincerely, Newt._

She writes back faithfully, although sometimes, it will take her a day or two to bring herself to open them. _No such luck yet on the werewolf situation, but I’ll keep trying. You’d think we’d saved an entire city from the most dangerous wizard in the world for nothing._

She writes _I miss you_ each time. And scribbles it out each time.

She settles on _Hope you’re well, Tina._ Fickle lets out a disapproving chitter.

“Oh, T,” Queenie sighs sympathetically after she sends off her most recent letter. “I don’t gotta read your mind to know you’re blue.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s normal to miss him. He was around a bunch, and now… he’s not.”

“It’s ‘human nature’, right?” Tina snaps coldly, slamming her quill down on the table and storming towards the kitchen.

Queenie’s brow furrows, tracking her movement. “You heard that?”

“Yeah, I did.” Tina begins to put clean dishes away with a fury and haphazard swishes of her wand. “You should start your own advice column: how to soothe the woes of today’s modern wizards in just a couple of short, quippy catchphrases.”

“Stop being a ghoul,” Queenie mutters, hurt. “We both know I ain’t the one you’re mad at.”

“Then who I am I mad at? Tell me, because you seem to have all the answers!” Tina knows she’s asking for it, but maybe part of her needs to hear -

“Come on, Tina,” Queenie begs. “Let’s not do it like this.”

“No, tell me! Or do you only share your wisdom with broken men?” It’s a horrible thing to say, she knows the pressure points -

“You’re mad at yourself!” Queenie suddenly snaps, temper flaring. “Because you let yourself fall for him.”

“ _No!_ I’m mad at _him_ , because he _let me_ , when he clearly loves another-” Tina halts, and a cup crashes down with a desolate _thunk_. The ache in her chest suddenly rushes through her to catch in her throat and she makes the mistake of meeting her sister’s much-too-understanding eyes.

She crumples into herself, hysterically weeping in the middle of the home they made together.

She thought she’d adapted, and was still beaten.

She loves him, and doesn’t know how to unlearn this.

Queenie’s arms are around her at once, and Tina continues to sob into her sister’s shoulder, heaving. She’s not a pretty crier in the least, but she’s never had to pretend to be pretty around the person who knows her best.

“Tini, I’ve heard his thoughts about you,” Queenie murmurs as Tina’s sobs begin to quiet. “I’ve listened to his heart. He thinks of you the way he has no other.” She steps back from her sister to look directly in her eye. “ _No other_.”

Tina furiously wipes at her stinging eyes, her throat raw. “But,” she croaks, numb to any explanation. “I thought… Leta…”

She’s disgusted by the sound and feeling of her own tears, her pathetic admission that a man - _a wonderful, wonderful man,_ she can’t help but think, her heart swelling - has broken her down in this way. She likes to think that she is made of steel - for if she isn’t, how in the world can she live each day the way she does? - and it’s devastating, she realizes, to feel the full force of her own flesh and bone.

“Oh, _Tina_.” Queenie’s own eyes, widening at the sound of her sister’s thoughts, are now spilling over with tears, and Tina instinctively reaches out to rub them away. “Being in love doesn’t make you _weak_.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” she asks bitterly, tears of frustration beginning to well once more.

“Because you’ve convinced yourself that it’s selfish and silly, even if you don’t realize it.” Queenie’s face turns serious and sober. “Tina, you’ve always done what you needed to do. To get good grades in school, become an auror, make sure you and me _survived_. Everything else was background noise, until the thing with Credence. And then one day, Newt shows up, and you couldn’t stick him with everything else.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Tina whispers - _ketchup on hot dogs, bowtruckles in packages, warmth in his eyes and hands_ \- and the deluge of _feeling_ that crashes over yet again brings her back to the reality she knows all too well. “But the other night… you said he loved her…”

“He does,” Queenie says gently. “She wasn’t just his first love - she was his best friend for years. I think there’s a part of him that will always love her - or at least, whoever she was when they were young.” Her voice becomes firmer. “But the way he feels about you - even though he hasn’t admitted to himself yet-”

“You don’t have to-” (she isn’t ready to believe-)

“Hey!” Queenie’s voice sharpens. “He’s getting there - he needs time, just like you. But he’ll show it soon. And unlike you, missy…  I _do_ know human nature.”

That she does.

His most recent letter comes a week or so later; she opens it at once. It says: _It’s very different here from New York, but I think you’d like it all the same._

_Would you like to come and see for yourself?_

_Sincerely,_ _  
_ _Newt_

_P.S. I miss you. Quite a bit._

 

* * *

 

 

The Scamander estate is beautiful. The grounds are lush and endless, the building itself an architect’s _magnum opus_ comprised of technicalities and details she’ll never understand, its seams bursting with familial pride and regality -

The estate is beautiful. And so completely unlike him.

She finds him, of course, in the fields with the hippogriffs. Sleeves rolled and posture respectful, he soothes a baby one whose left wing is still frustratingly unfurled. Despite how out of place he looks on the estate, he looks content, in his element.

It’s been three months since she saw him last, broken-hearted in the doorway of her home.

For a moment, she stands there, observing him, hands wringing together.

He seems to sense her presence and glances up - confusion falls into disbelief, which morphs into elation, which settles into something she can’t quite understand yet (still, she learns).

Newt continues to stare at her,  and all she manages to do is wave hesitantly back.

It’s been three months and she doesn’t know where to begin.

After cajoling the baby back to its mother, he bounds towards her. “You’re here.” he states, eyes familiarly wide and bewildered. “I didn’t realize-”

She’d hopped on the next ship after receiving his letter and hadn’t bothered to respond, overcome by a strange sense of urgency. “Yeah, I just… my owl wouldn’t have reached in time,” she explains lamely. “I hope this is alright. Your house elf gave me a real talking-to about guest manners just now.”

“He’s more bark than bite,” Newt responds, a corner of his mouth twitching. “But it’s… it’s m-more than alright. It’s... wonderful, actually.”

“I missed you,” she blurts, and for the first time, doesn’t want to take it back.

She expects him to look startled, as he quite often does, but he merely offers her a soft gaze that warms her down to her toes. “And I you.” He suddenly jerks his head to right (now she’s the startled one). “Let’s take a walk?”

There’s a bit of small talk, as most reunions would call for, but Tina finds herself itching to get past it, not-so-practiced words lingering at the tip of her tongue.

“Have you enjoyed being here, then?” she asks him. They’re walking along the edge of the estate’s lake.

“It’s been… good for me, I think,” he says carefully. “Good to return to my roots, as different as they are to me.”

“I can’t imagine you growing up here,” she admits. “Living in this society, having these _expectations_ on you.”

“My father and mother very quickly learned that I would not meet those types of expectations,” Newt responds, sounding more amused than anything. “I didn’t used to be proud of that. I am now, I believe.”

Tina now takes a deep breath, bracing herself, forcing her hands to stay at her sides. “On the subject of your… roots… are you okay with everything going on? With - with Leta?”

He stops in his tracks, and she follows suit, uneasy.

“You know,” he begins quietly, so quietly that she has to strain to listen to him, over the blood roaring in her ears. “There was a time in which I believed that Leta Lestrange was the only person, only _human_ person, in the entire world that would ever know me for who I was. The only person who would ever _see_ me. I was wrong then, and I know that now.”

His gaze swivels to her’s.

“As I’ve learned over the course of the past year or so, there’s only been one person in the world who truly understands me from the inside out and still - still accepts me, in spite of it all.”

She forces herself to swallow a sob of relief - still not quite letting herself _believe_ \- even as her precious, Auror-honed awareness is unable to focus on anything but his voice heavy with affection, messy blue gaze swimming before her own, and a careful, calloused warmth lingering by her jaw.

His hand now tenderly cradles her head, thumb stroking her temple, as he did so many months ago on (the day after) her 27th birthday.

“One passionate-” (blood rushes to her face)

“-disarming, q-quite literally at times-” (she breaks his gaze for a moment, embarrassed)

“-utterly frustrating-” (she lets out a loud, trembling laugh at that)

“-truly marvelous person. Perhaps the best I’ve ever known.”

He is so sincere and so _sure_ that she is now openly crying, long-buried tears rising to the surface - she finds that she is no longer ashamed of them.

It’s human nature, after all.

“ _Tina_ …”

“I don’t know how to do this,” she confesses, nearly shaking under the weight of it all, joy and fear in fierce battle. “I _want_ to, I do, but I’m still… _learning."_

(how to love him, in a way they _both_ deserve)

“Well,” he murmurs softly, taking her hand in his. He brings it to his mouth and brushes his lips against her knuckles, almost worshipfully. “So am I. Perhaps we can... share notes.”

She laughs through her tears as he winces at his own words, letting herself place a hand on his cheek with the same reverence as he did her.

He closes his eyes (joy wins the round).

“I’d like that,” she says, and after a year or so of stumbling through this rogue, terrifying, _magnificent_ terrain, her heart settles back into time. “I’d like that very much.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Incredibly enough, there was even more I wanted to add to this (which may or may not be discussed in a Newt companion piece), but I figured that 4000+ words was already overkill for a one-shot.
> 
> Despite having only really known this character for a few weeks, Tina is already incredibly close to my heart. I've been immersed in Rowling's universe for as long as I can remember, but I've never connected with a character as strongly as I have Tina. 
> 
> Anyways, this is my first (published) foray into the Wizarding World and on Archive, so I would very much appreciate any comments! Thank you for taking the time to read this piece.


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